


Bursts

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade becomes one of Sherlock's obsessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bursts

Sherlock becomes obsessed with things, odd things like cases or killers or methods of death. This doesn't worry Lestrade because he knows about the addictive personality - he had an old uncle once, a red-nosed, thread-vained old uncle who always smelt of hops, so he knows all about the addictive gene.

But whenever Sherlock becomes obsessed with _him,_ Lestrade gets unnerved.

It's happened once or twice since they started sleeping together, usually in a long break from a case, usually when Lestrade appears to have something else he's spending his time on. Sherlock is like a child, only wanting his toy when he's told he can't have it, desperate to play with the one thing in the toybox that is off limits. When it happens it's slighty wearing, but also Lestrade finds himself feeling vaguely pleased - he knows he should feel wrong about this.

On this occasion it's when they have a visit from the police commisioner, when they're all tidying up their loose ends, getting the jobs they're working on up to speed for close scrutiny. He hasn't got an hour to himself, so suddenly Sherlock wants him more than ever.

"I'm conducting an experiment," Sherlock says into the phone, a slight whine to his voice. "I need your assistance. I always help you, why can't you repay the favour?"

"I'm bloody busy and you know I am," Lestrade replies, passing Sally a case file and ignoring her questioning look. He stares at her until she leaves and then continues. "Anyway, you're just horny, you don't really need my assistance."

"Don't be so obscene," Sherlock replies, and he can hear things being clunked and thrown in the background. "I'm not a _youth_ on a holiday to Ibiza; I don't get _horny."_ He says it with disdain.

"Oh yes you do," Lestrade mutters, shifting things around on his desk and ignoring the sensations flickering in his stomach. Sherlock doesn't get like this often - about three times in the last five years. But when he does, it's so powerful and so privileged being the focus of that much rapt and avid attention, Lestrade never says no. There are times when he begs for these moments, for Sherlock to show him something more than indifferent boredom. 

There is the further noise of things being destroyed on Sherlock's end of the line and Lestrade finally finds the arrest report he is looking for. "Oh come on, I'll say please if I really have to," Sherlock tuts. He sounds adonoidal, like the very immitation of a petulant child.

"I can't get away," Lestrade replies honestly. "I would if I could, trust me." He waits a heartbeat to work out whether he should be so honest and vulnerable then moves the phone closer to his mouth and speaks quietly. "I do want you, honestly."

Sherlock huffs, like this is not enough. "Are you going to force me to masturbate? I don't get like this very often, as I'm sure you're aware - I thought you might want to take advantage, but if you're just too busy..." He trails off, leaving the guilt there for Lestrade to soak up, along with the threat of the limited-time-only offer. 

This is probably emotional - or sexual - blackmail.

"I can't just abandon everyone, there is actual work to do - we have a case underneath all this, you know."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment and then there is the sound of something smashing. "Ooops."

Lestrade holds the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he looks through the filing cabinet, trying to play match the arrest report to the crime. He wishes he'd more time to be organised in the first place. "What piece of Mrs Hudson's furniture are you smashing up now?" He asks, locating the right file. Bingo.

"I'm not at Baker Street," Sherlock replies. "I'm at your's."

There is a second before Lestrade realises what he's said. He kicks the filing cabinet closed. "What?!"

"I broke in. You locks are boringly simple. I thought I might spread-eagle myself on your bed - that's what lovers do, isn't it?"

He ignores the fact Sherlock has just referred to himself as his 'lover'. The thought does funny things to his trousers. "Sherlock, what are you - ? Get out of my bloody house!"

"Was the ugly Ming vase important? It's in slightly more pieces now than when I arrived."

"Hannah's mother gave us that for our fifth anniversary - Sherlock, what d'you think you're doing?!"

"Trying to lure you home," Sherlock replies. "And what are you doing with a pair of handcuffs in your bedroom drawer? Are you sleeping with someone who likes to be shackled?"

"I'm sleeping with an absolute bloody lunatic, apparently," Lestrade shouts, torn between anger and mortification. He runs a hand through his hair. "Stop looking through my things!"

"Clearly you'll just have to come here and stop me, won't you?"

Sherlock sounds pleased with himself. There is a burst of frustration building in Lestrade's chest and it's a good few moments before he realises it's partly sexual. He feels an ache where he knows he shouldn't be aching.

"Don't touch anything else, I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"What about myself?" Sherlock asks, sounding smug. "Can I touch myself, Inspector?"

"Piss off, Sherlock," he barks, and slams the phone down.

He marches past Sally with all the authority he can muster, daring her to ask him where he's going.

 

 

 

The house looks like he's been burgled.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade shouts, throwing his keys down on the coffee table. They make an unearthly clatter.

"You have the diet of someone desperate for a heart attack," Sherlock announces quite calmly, appearing from the kitchen. He is eating custard straight from the bowl, licking it off his fingers. He looks ruffled from his time destroying the living room.

"I was saving that."

"Don't worry, I ate the hideous sponge concoction that goes with it as well - lovely jam."

"You can't just break in here and - "

"Ah, but I have," Sherlock points out, putting down the bowl and making his way across the living room. He kisses Lestrade firmly on the mouth. He tastes of raspberry jam and custard. "Hello."

"You know, I'm glad this doesn't happen very often," Lestrade lies as he watches Sherlock unknot his tie. "Being the focus of your attention is disturbing."

"You were wearing a tie for the comissioner," Sherlock notes. "How very respectful and twee of you."

"He's my superior," Lestrade says, feeling his skin flush hot and warm as his jacket is slipped away from his shoulders. "But you wouldn't understand bowing to a higher power, would you?"

"Of course not, I don't have a boss."

"You don't have a _job,"_ he replies, stomach twisting in an interesting and distracting knot at the way Sherlock plays with his fingers, nails dancing all over his hands. It's thrilling.

"Neither will you if you keep upping and leaving like this for casual intercourse."

"D'you want me to go back, then?" Lestrade asks, twitching a little as thumbs are dragged over the soft, vulnerable skin on the insides of his wrists. "And don't say 'intercourse', it's too clinical."

"Sex, then?" Sherlock offers, kissing him softly. His lips are cool from the straight-from-the-fridge custard and he tastes unbearably sweet. "Fucking?"

Lestrade captures his mouth with sharp determination, wound as tightly as a violin string. "Say that again."

"What?" Sherlock asks, voice a mere whisper. "Fucking?" 

He places emphasis of the 'k' sound, making it sharp and hard. The noise goes straight to Lestrade's stomach. "This is just a phase, isn't it?" He mutters as Sherlock dips down to kiss at his neck, treating him like the custard from the bowl. "You won't want to ruin my career forever, will you?"

"Don't worry," Sherlock assures him, "Just a manic phase. You're my focus, just for now. Next week it will be eyes in jars in microwaves again."

"Good," Lestrade replies, hearing his breath hitch as his hands go to Sherlock's hips, dragging him closer; impossibly, desperately closer. "That's - reassuring."

Sherlock bites painfully at the lobe of his ear and Lestrade feels the sensation translate down to pleasure between his legs. He flinches. 

Then for a moment, Sherlock stills completely. Lestrade fears briefly that he's gone off the idea, that the obsession has quickly passed. It's possible.

"What?"

Sherlock pulls away. He is wearing an interested frown. "What does cold custard feel like spread on warm skin?"

Lestrade's eyebrows knit together. "I don't know."

"Then I think it's time we found out."

He misses his date with the commisioner, but it's very thoroughly worth it.


End file.
